Surprises
by TearStainedAshes
Summary: Part 5 of my Jumpers and Scarves series. John comes home from work to discover Sherlock's bedroom door open and Sherlock getting dressed, stopping dead in his tracks when he gets a full view of Sherlock's bum.


Part 5 in my Jumpers and Scarves series.

John comes home from work to discover Sherlock's bedroom door open and Sherlock getting dressed, stopping dead in his tracks when he gets a full view of Sherlock's bum.

Based off this post from thescienceofjohnlock on tumblr: post/41093547013

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Months went by after the umbrella incident, though not without tension. If Sherlock and John were "trapped" in a room with an empty silence, John would usually get up and leave and Sherlock would go out to the fire escape and smoke. If Sherlock was playing the violin, John would make up an excuse to leave, the music reminding him of the unwanted and confusing fantasy. But when they were working, their blood pumping through their veins as they ran through the London streets, they were completely at peace with one another.

Lestrade welcomed them back with open arms. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically. Apparently, Sherlock had come back in the height of a crime spree. Petty thefts to multiple homicides occurring one after the other. Or so it seemed. Sherlock was able to discover that a crime ring was using murders to cover up the thefts, making the police hunt for the killers rather than the burglars and the stolen goods. They weren't very professional as they gave up as soon as John pulled out his gun, and Lestrade and the Yarders took them into custody and booking. He and Sherlock still worked well together at least, their confusion about their feelings forgotten until they got in a cab to go home.

John would typically grab Chinese takeaway most nights, sometimes Thai, and he would eat while Sherlock paced the sitting room, itching for another case. John would always shower around 9 p.m. before going to bed, especially if he had to work the next morning. When John was upstairs and settled in bed, Sherlock would eat the food John bought for him, toss the rubbish in the bin, and stay up pacing until his post-case exhaustions kicked in. He would undress haphazardly, leaving his clothes on the floor in a trail leading to his bedroom. John would find the clothes in the morning, his bedroom door ajar, and would toss Sherlock's clothes into his room, closing the door quietly behind him so he wouldn't wake the comatose detective while he made breakfast. Sherlock would always be awake, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown, when John returned from work. He'd either be pacing the floor, perched on in his chair, or on the couch in his thinking pose. John would order takeaway and the pattern would repeat unless a case interrupted it.

They carried on that pattern for months. The awkward and tense environment eased with time, but it still lingered in the air. One night after a particularly grueling case, resulting in one consulting detective getting his cheek sliced open by the panicking suspect, John had taken Sherlock to hospital to get it closed, much to Sherlock's protestations.

'I don't need a doctor!' he'd said in the cab on the way there. 'I've got you! My own private doctor!'

'You still need a second opinion,' John grumbled. 'And I can't prescribe you medication. And you're going to need some for this. Now shut it.' Surprisingly, Sherlock had listened. He even refrained from shouting deductions at the staff, though he _had_ called a couple of them bumbling idiots. He had his cheek stitched shut, the use of a local anesthetic helping immensely after it was discovered Sherlock had a very low pain threshold when he wasn't on an adrenaline high. He was prescribed a mild pain killer and antibiotics and the two of them were sent home. John made Sherlock eat a sandwich before taking his first dose of pills, stating that if he didn't have something in his stomach then the pills would give him pains and possibly make him vomit. Sherlock ate the sandwich without question. He hated vomiting. It burned his throat and always made him feel worse afterward, not better. With the adrenaline out of his system, his stomach full, and the pain pills doing their job, Sherlock soon fell asleep slumped on the sofa. John would have moved him to his bed but he was called into work on his day off. He left a glass of water out for Sherlock should he wake up and went out to fill his coworker's shift.

Sherlock woke about an hour later, his mind groggy from the meds and sleep. He groaned when his back twinged in protest of the awkward angle he was in on the couch, so he stood and shuffled off to his bedroom, shedding his clothes on the way and climbing into bed stark naked. He slept for the rest of the afternoon, not waking until he heard the front door open and a certain army doctor's tell-tale gait ascending the stairs. He groaned and slid out of bed, still tired but wanting to feign normalcy so John wouldn't fret over him. He was just pulling on a fresh pair of boxers when he registered his bedroom door being opened and heard a sharp intake of breath. He didn't think anything of it until he heard the thump of his clothing being dropped and John's footsteps heading up to his own bedroom.

_Oh. John saw me getting dressed,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _But he's seen me undressed before, though I was wrapped in a sheet at the time. Why is this time different?_

That was precisely what John was wondering himself. He'd seen Sherlock in various states of undress before. What made this time different?

_You saw Sherlock's bare arse this time. That's what makes it different._

He swallowed thickly and felt his hand spasm. He clenched it into a tight fist and closed his eyes to block out the world, but all he saw was Sherlock's naked bum. He was surprised to hear a whimper come out of his throat. His eyes snapped open and he took deep breaths. Something more was going on here. This wasn't how normal flatmates reacted to seeing the other semi-naked. He needed time to think about what was going on, to evaluate his feelings for Sherlock.

'Feelings,' he said aloud. 'I have feelings for my flatmate?'

_Maybe_, his inner monologue said. _Maybe you've always had feelings for him but you didn't realise it. Like when you 'asked him out' that first night at Angelo's during the Study in Pink case._

'No,' John said aloud. 'That's ridiculous. I don't have feelings for Sherlock Holmes.'

_Yes you do, _his monologue said again. _You're just scared to admit it. Think about it for a while to see what you really feel. Then tell him._

'If he'll listen,' John scoffed. He stood up and stretched, shedding his coat and shoes before padding downstairs to check on Sherlock again. He was back in bed, the pain medication doing its job, and he sighed in relief.

'Time for a cold shower then,' he mumbled to himself quietly. He closed Sherlock's bedroom door and went to the bathroom, turning the shower water on lukewarm and standing under it for half an hour, just letting it rush over him as he tried to calm his racing thoughts.

**...::-::...**

Sherlock didn't appreciate John's distance over the following months. It unnerved him to no end. Had seeing him get his cheek slashed open really upset him so much he didn't want to be around him? Or was this about something else? The first day back had been a blur as he'd slept so much, those damn pills making him so tired he had no choice but to sleep them off. Nothing strange had happened as far as he could remember. So it must have happened that first day after they'd come home. He searched his mind palace and found a possible reason. John had seen him getting dressed and had seen him naked for the first time. Well, partially naked. All he'd seen was his bum. But why was that so upsetting? Was this all still about John's confusion over his own sexuality? Or was it something simpler that Sherlock just wasn't seeing? Whatever it was, it was starting to piss Sherlock off.

And it ended as suddenly as it had started. Out of nowhere John came home with Chinese takeaway and was making tea, making small talk and just speaking to Sherlock as if he actually listened. Sherlock blinked and stared at him as he bustled about in the kitchen preparing their dinners.

'So... We're on speaking terms again?' he said, taking note how John stopped and paused before turning to look at him.

'Yeah. Sorry about that. I just had a lot on my mind and I needed to sort it out.'

'What did you have on your mind?'

'Personal stuff that you won't care about.'

'Ah. Then keep it to yourself.' John almost laughed, _almost_, but kept his laughter to himself. He set out their dinners and instructed Sherlock to eat or he wouldn't allow him to experiment for a week. Sherlock obeyed.

And just like that they were back to normal. No more awkward silences, no more leaving a room when they were alone together, no more tension. Though something hung above them like a dark cloud, only it wasn't nearly as depressing. Sherlock would almost describe it as a looming joyfulness. The darkness had seemed to recede and what was left was the companionship they'd always had, only now it was stronger than ever. Things were finally looking up.

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Sorry this one is so short. I just wanted to finally get it up after not posting for months. The next one is already being typed up and should be posted soon. I hope. Though with the holidays coming up I'm not making any promises.

I hope this short story finds you all in good and merry spirits. See you soon!

TSA


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